Read between your lines
by wsinclaire
Summary: Missy and the Doctor give in to temptation.
1. Chapter 1

Rating: M to be save

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. These characters are not mine.

WS

Part One

He sat at his desk, engrossed in the process of marking. Pesky business, really, but a lot had to be said not only for having a somewhat mundane task that helped him clear his mind, but for the pleasant solitude, a welcome by-product of nights on Earth when everything was asleep and the world felt somewhat uncompromised.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed a dark figure standing perfectly still in the doorway of the TARDIS and he almost jumped out of his skin.

"Wha— how long have you…you know you're not supposed to be here," he stuttered and her silence, her lingering in the shadows like that, unnerved him immediately. He shouldn't ever have allowed her out of the vault in the first place. But, admittedly, she hadn't taken liberties, and surprisingly, she hadn't come close to even stepping up to that line.

"Fine. Do come in. Have a look around."

The rustling of her skirts disturbed his perfect silence, her sudden presence in the room astonished him, and all his senses heightened almost automatically. She avoided stepping into the pool of light from the lamp on his desk, and stood in front of a bookshelf.

"Just so we're clear, that," he said, pointing to the door on the far side of his office that lead into the hallway, "is out of bounds. Completely out of bounds."

She didn't speak, just lifted her hands up in surrender, telling him that she'd heard him, that she'd understood.

He went back to marking and let her be, only every once in a while did he look up to find her pulling a book from the shelf, flicking through it before putting it back. She wandered around his world like a tourist, unsure, and maybe a little bit lost.

"Come live with me and be my love," she read out loud, then sniggered before proceeding to read out the entire poem whilst walking up and down the length of his office.

"Marlow's beyond you," he told her when she was finished. "You don't have the hearts for poetry, Missy. It sounds like an insult when you say it."

"Doctor, how utterly rude of you," she faked outrage. "But I can see how this little ditty is far more up your alley than mine."

"Oh yes, most definitely," he told her, eying her up. "I'm great at poetry. In fact there's a particular one that springs to mind looking at you right now."

"Come live with me and be my love?"

"Oh no, no, no, not that one, no. No. Yours goes like this: There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very good indeed, but when she was bad she was horrid." He smiled at her like the Cheshire cat and she replied with a grimace.

"I didn't know you did cute, Doctor."

"Oh yes, you did. You love it when I do cute."

"Please," she exasperated and lifted the book up to her face. "Come live with me and be my love," she started again and finally stepped out of the shadows to perch against his desk right next to where he was sitting.

"Reading poetry increases your empathy and emotional intelligence. May I suggest you keep going?" he said to her, trying not to notice her sudden proximity.

"And we will all the pleasures prove."

"And now once more with feeling," he suggested.

"Stop interrupting me, Doctor. I can do with feeling."

He leant back in his chair and looked at her. "I know you can, actually. I've got excellent memory, you know? Truly excellent," he pondered and looked her up and down. "I think you were wearing a lot less, though."

He could almost see her brilliant brain trying to come up with a smart retort, but he didn't let her finish the thought and snatched the book from her hands.

"Come live with me, and be my love," he read, getting to his feet, gesticulating madly.

"So what, you're an actor now?" she asked and crossed her arms.

"I'm the passionate shepherd," he explained, and stood right in front of her, too close, really, because he had to be careful not to let himself fall into her eyes. "Come live with me, and be my love. And we will all the pleasures prove that valleys, groves, hills and fields, woods, or steepy mountain yields."

"I hate to tell you this, but love and prove don't rhyme," she said to him, completely deadpan.

He lowered the book.

"Especially not in your accent," he told her.

"Snap. You certainly are the passionate shepherd, aren't you? All alone with your flock, your pets. And you're just sitting around…keeping watch."

He knew she was criticising, waiting for a reaction from him, but he didn't rise to it. Instead, he held her gaze. Looked into those eye.

"Tell me, Doctor, you must get terribly lonely. Did you miss me?" She asked and flippantly poked his chest with her index finger.

"Nah!" he said. "I've been too busy. Places to go, people to see. You know how it is. Why? Did you miss me?"

"Well, no, of course not. I'm sure you can appreciate that I've been incredibly busy too," she said, her accent coming through thick and heavy.

"I didn't think so, anyway," he mocked and gave the book back to her. "Here. Keep reading. It's good for you."

"Like eating your greens?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes before moving to sit down opposite him at the desk.

He shook his head at her and returned to his work.

Stillness settled around them and suddenly they simply existed in the same moment. Only when the night threatened to lift did he stand up, walk around to her and offered her his hand.

"Time to put you back. I'm sorry," he whispered not to break the spell. "Take the book if you like."

She took his hand after a moment of contemplation and let him pull her to her feet. When their fingers gently entwined, he realized he wasn't sure who'd started it, and when he saw neither a sarcastic glimmer not a smile in her astonishing eyes his heartbeats quickened and he pulled his hand away as if she'd burned him.

Her eyes became ice cold immediately and she laughed faintly before turning away and walking back into the TARDIS, and into the vault.

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

He didn't see her at all the following day, leaving him wondering if they'd actually fallen out, until she tiptoed into the doorway to his office and knocked three times.

He looked up from his work and allowed himself the smile he felt tugging at the corners of his mouth. She smiled, too, and he was assured that whatever the hell had happened the previous night was forgiven- though most certainly not forgotten.

"You really must be very bored."

"I'm bored of Christopher Marlowe," she whined, dropped the book onto his desk and let herself fall heavily into the chair opposite him. "I say we go and see the man himself and tell him about the problem with the non-rhyme. In fact, whilst we're there, we may as well find out what all that nonsense is really about."

"You know what's so ironic?" The Doctor asked and regarded her as she shrugged. "Here you are with your brilliant mind, and yet a simple poem is lost on you?"

"The poem's called "The Passionate Shepherd", and then it starts with "Come live with me, and be my love"," she said. "But we already know he's a shepherd, and why would she want to sign up for that?"

"How are you missing the point?"

"Maybe I just don't get poetry."

"Missy," he said quietly, put down his pen and leant back in his chair. "You have to read between the lines. Try making an effort and really listen to him. He's offering her everything he knows to offer her. He even throws in a little bit of gold, and the whole thing may sound like a pathetic plea, but really, he just wants to tell her how much he loves her."

"Maybe it's all just too primitive for my brilliant mind, Doctor," she contemplated and shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, well…"

"I think you're just afraid of it," he said and smiled.

"Afraid of poetry?" she laughed.

"No. Not poetry. You know what I'm talking about," he told her. "But you've always been like this, you know. Whenever you didn't want to do something you pretended you didn't understand. Even back at the Academy. You never not understood; you just thought if you ignored it for long enough it would disappear. Like every lab assignment."

She raised her eyebrows and gave him a sarcastic grin.

"So what? You're my teacher now? My therapist? My lab partner?"

"No. I am your friend."

She laughed then and he exasperated.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I didn't mean to laugh. I was just thinking of all the things you yourself have been hoping would disappear. Mainly me, and don't tell me it isn't true."

He didn't take her bait, just furrowed his brow and continued their previous conversation.

"I've seen your poetry side, your soft side, and I actually think you know it better than you'll ever admit," he said and held her firm with his gaze. "Stop pretending it doesn't exist. It's not so bad, actually."

Her eyes gleamed in the warm light of the lamp, and she never once broke eye contact as she got out of her chair, skirts rustling, and walked around the desk to stand next to him. She perched on the edge just like the previous night, arms crossed.

"I'm not trying to ignore my soft side any more than you are trying to ignore your dark side, and don't tell me I'm wrong. Oh, Doctor, I've seen your dark side," she whispered. "And it's glorious."

He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

"I don't need a teacher or a therapist, either, Missy. Maybe we both need to back off," he whispered, struggling now to hold her red hot gaze.

"You still don't trust me, Doctor," she said, running her fingertips down his arm. "How disappointing."

"I wouldn't trust you as far as I can throw you," he said and wondered if that was the real reason he hadn't been able to keep his eyes off of her.

"Such a pity," she replied. "And to think that there were times when we were so much more than friends." She waited for her words to spark his memory before smiling faintly. "Speaking of your dark side."

"And your soft side. But I've got bad news; I didn't trust you back then, either."

"Are you absolutely sure?" she said ever so quietly and he knew she'd called his bluff. He was almost glad for it, because he was exhausted. The whole situation was quite frankly beyond him. He ran his hands over his face and leant back in his chair.

"What are we doing here? I mean, what's this really about? What do you want, Missy?"

"Why are you resisting me, Doctor?" she asked, her voice moving across three octaves. "I've been here for months. First you don't come to see me at all, then you very graciously invite me to move around your TARDIS, but somehow you manage to avoid me, still. I have to come out here and talk about poetry so you finally speak to me. And yet your eyes are all over me. All the time. Every time you touch me the bloody air crackles. So why don't _you_ tell me what _that's_ all about?"

And just like that the cards were on the table and his vision was blurry.

"Why are you lying to yourself?" she asked.

"How do you know I'm lying to myself? You don't know that."

"Because," she said, lifted the hem of her skirt so she could put one leg over him and sit in his lap.

He held his breath, his hearts beating out his chest.

"Missy," he said and didn't know where to look. She didn't seem to have as much of a severe physical reaction to their sudden closeness, and leisurely draped her arms around his neck, and then all he could feel was her hot breath on his face as she spoke.

"I know because I can see deeper into your eyes than you could possibly imagine, Doctor. And I know that when you push me away, your dark side wants to get inside of me. Excuse the terrible pun."

"Stop it," he warned.

"Or else?"

"Missy."

She leaned even closer, her mouth by his ear and he had to make a conscious effort not to let out a whimper.

"Come live with me, and be my love," she whispered and he lost it.

He stood up, taking her with him, sitting her down on the desk. Her eyes were dark and vibrant and he wondered how lost he could get if he really allowed himself to stop and marvel at them.

"This is a terrible idea," he said and took her face in between his hands, noticing briefly the glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "I'm an idiot," he whispered and then he was kissing her; hot and open-mouthed and completely unashamed.

He felt her come alive immediately, felt that spark ignite. She put her legs around him and pulled him flush against herself, and for a moment he wondered if he could actually burn in her heat. She tasted so good, and this time he didn't care when he let out a deep moan. When the kiss was over and he opened his eyes, it felt to him like he was seeing her for the very first time in a thousand years.

"Finally. I was starting to wonder if you'd gone off me," she whispered and planted the gentlest of all kisses on his lips. "You never know with a new body."

"You can't even begin to imagine..."

"This has been the longest foreplay in the history of—"

"Us," he concluded, unbuttoning her jacket.

He unclasped her broach, then started unbuttoning her blouse, her shallow breathing and the sight of her pulse under the delicate skin on her neck, double heartbeats, made his hands shake.

"Why in all hell are you wearing so much?" he asked, frustrated.

"I thought you liked a nicely pressed frock, Doctor," she retorted. The fiddliness of too many buttons annoyed him so much that he ripped the garment open, sending all said buttons flying, and revealing a simple corset.

"You just had to come back as this, didn't you?" he cursed and pushed her skirts up, revealing knee high boots, naked thighs and a frilly pair of knickers. He grabbed her thighs hard, so desperate now to feel her skin, her heat, her nakedness. Her kisses were committed and demanding, and when he realized that she'd skilfully undone his shirt and had already moved on to unbuttoning his trousers he sent out a plea to the universe that he wouldn't completely embarrass himself in front of her. He pulled off her underwear, his hands shaking and looked at her almost apologetically.

"Missy," he whispered, pulled her right to the edge of the table and rested his forehead against hers.

"Get on with it, you idiot," she told him, a genuine smile flashing across her face.

He pushed into her with one desperate thrust, and then he was fucking her completely unceremoniously on his desk. The little noises she made were driving him insane, the feel of her all around him, the knowledge that she was once again indisputably his were enough to make his brain short circuit. But this very primitive act of sexual intercourse was only the tip of the iceberg. The repercussions of allowing her to be like this with him, of allowing himself to be like this with her, like so many times before, were too great to fathom. They'd been so good at resisting their ultimate temptation, that state of existing that was both their salvation and their undoing, and right now they were ruining it in the most forbidden and delicious of all ways. He felt her entire being, thousands of years of her, of them, saw it all so clearly for a moment, and the sheer rapture he found in her made him want to weep with gratitude. It was hot and cold, it was love and hate, he cursed her and he worshipped her.

But he couldn't for the life of him look her in the eyes.

She clung to him, both arms slung around his neck, and he felt her whole body trembling. She was thrusting against him hard, like she was penetrating him and not the other way around, and he could feel her release building and building, and when she said his name way too close to his ear she'd done it, and he came with her, barely registering the string of expletives coming out of her mouth.

Four heartbeats pounded against his chest and he held her limp body against his. Only when her breathing had calmed he released her from his iron clasp, the muscles in his arms aching.

She looked at him through hazy eyes, and he took advantage of her orgasm-induces sweetness and gave her a sloppy kiss on the mouth, before pulling her close once more. She rested her head on his shoulder and he buried his face in her hair.

She was the first to speak.

"Well, that took…what? A minute and a half, would you say?"

"Please don't say it," he whined. "I'm so embarrassed… my trousers are around my ankles."

"Well," she sighed dramatically, and let herself fall backwards to lie on the desk, landing on the volume of poetry. "Ouch," she said and took it out from under her back, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thud.

"Doctor, Doctor, you really haven't lost your touch," she said and stretched like the cat who got the cream.

"It must be your goal in life to drive me crazy," he said and leant forward to lie on top of her, his head against her stomach. He wanted to breathe her in, to learn everything about her new body. One hand gently ran up and down the bones of her corset, and he felt her eyes looking down at him.

"And to think I only came here to discuss poetry," she said quietly and ran her hands through his hair with sheer tenderness.

"Come live with me, and be my love," he whispered and drew her name in Gallifreyan on her naked arm with his fingertip.

He felt her brain catching up with her then, her body stiffened, and she tried to get out from under him.

"I think there's been enough excitement for one day, don't you, Doctor?"

He let her sit up, only slightly flabbergasted by her sudden change, because he had expected her retreat. He pulled up his trousers and pants, then let himself fall back into his chair.

His head was spinning.

He watched her hop off the desk, pick her knickers off of the floor as well as a couple of buttons. She closed her jacket, her hair was a beautiful mess, falling into her face and she continuously brushed it out of her eyes. She looked beautifully deranged.

"You owe me six buttons, Doctor. And may I request a sewing kit?" she babbled, doing a fine job of avoiding his penetrating gaze.

"Are you okay?" he asked as she fussed over arranging her skirt.

"Yes, fine. Why wouldn't I be? We itched that scratch, it's all good. All done now. All super-duper, hunky-dory."

Why did absolutely everything about her have to be so damn infuriating?

"Don't forget your bedtime reading," he said, picked up the book and offered it to her.

"No," she shrugged, looking only at the book, "But thank you. I've changed my mind. I don't do poetry. I can't." She turned to walk away, but he caught her. Their fingers entwine almost on their own accord, and he heard her breath catch in her throat.

"Missy," he whispered. "Your hand in my hair… that's poetry… and… I understand. You don't have to spell it out. I can read between your lines. But it's time you read between mine."

Then he looked up and into her eyes.

"I know," she whispered.


End file.
